Simple Isn’t My Finish Line • The Prairie Homestead

Her Instagram profile was beautiful.

The vintage barn of my dreams.
The classic white clapboard farmhouse.
Shot after shot of kids romping through tall grass, pulling wagons, playing with chickens.

Captions like “unplugging on purpose,” “never going to town,” and “not participating in civilization.”

I scrolled and scrolled. Then came that feeling—you know the one. A lump in my stomach. Maybe even an ache. When I get those feelings, I’ve learned to pick them up, hold them in my hands, and look at them for a while.

My first thought: I want that.
Second thought: You basically have that, you idiot.
A third, quieter thought: You know that’s not enough for you…

That’s where I paused.

“Enough” is a slippery word that carries a lot of weight. One of our great modern problems is the itch for more—more stuff, more food, more status—more-more-more. It fills our landfills, our closets, our storage units, and our minds.

So among us countercultural folks, “wanting more” gets demonized—and for good reason. I’ve thrown plenty of rocks at it myself. The madness of modernity has made the simple life wildly attractive.

Compared to the beige suburban rat race, the 9–5 grind, and families scattered by a thousand activities, a quiet, calmer life speaks to us—as it should. It calls us back to nature, connection, and being human.

I heeded that call a long time ago—long before this homesteading life was trendy. And I still believe, to my bones, that it holds some of the most important keys for staying human in a world trying hard to convince us to become something else entirely.

But here’s the part I’ve been afraid to say out loud:

I need a little more.

I need to build things beyond chicken pot pie.
I need to create something besides clean laundry and washed dishes.
I need camaraderie, a team, and projects with other people.
I need to have solo adventures– just my horse and I.
I want to own real estate, invest, and build businesses.
I need fresh challenges and new adventures.

For a while, gardens and sourdough absolutely did that for me. And then, slowly, they became familiar—in a welcome, steady, “old friend” sort of way. That’s lovely for keeping the household humming in the background, but the challenge they once held wasn’t there anymore.

Around the same time, I realized my kids needed more, too. There was a beautiful, blissful season when running through pastures all day and playing on the living room floor was exactly right for them, and I’m forever grateful for that period.

But now they’re 15, 13, and 10. If they’re going to become who I know they can be, they need exposure to peers and other adults, leadership from sports, FFA, and 4-H, volunteer hours, and interactions with the public. They’ve cut their teeth dealing with opinionated horses, pushy milk cows, and bossy roosters, but there are lessons you only learn by soothing an irrational customer or untangling a complicated friend group dynamic.

Watching them navigate these moments, I see them growing in the richest ways.

Sometimes I wonder if this new batch of influencers will land in this place eventually—when the homestead honeymoon fades and kids get older. Or maybe I’m just the odd one who needs more than prairie dresses and garden baskets.

Either way, it doesn’t matter. Their road is theirs; mine is mine.

Once again, I find myself cutting a trail I don’t see many others walking.

Is there a way to live slowly and big?
To stay rooted and chase dreams?
To cultivate a home and a community?
To give my kids agrarian values without keeping them locked down on the homestead until they’re 21?

I think so. I hope so.

Because here’s the truth: even with the restaurant, the horsemanship, and kids in school and sports, I still love home—maybe now more than ever. Home is my safe place—my respite after long, busy days. I crave quiet nights by the fire, books written on paper, and candlelight. I still love sourdough and soil and food we raise ourselves. I still need days in the saddle, miles from anyone, where the only sign of humans is the rusty line of barbed wire keeping me company as I long-trot next to it. 

I live for these contrasts—this paradox. We all contain multitudes; maybe we just need permission to admit it. We’re not one-dimensional, even though our human nature loves tidy boxes and black-and-white lines.

Once upon a time, I tried to make “simple” my finish line and learned it isn’t—at least not for me.

It’s the training ground that lets me do the outward work with clear eyes and steady hands.

So I’ll keep the kettle on, but I’ll also keep building.

Both are holy. And both are home.

Blazing this new trail,

-Jill